


The Beasts That Howled

by slashmyheartandhopetoporn



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmyheartandhopetoporn/pseuds/slashmyheartandhopetoporn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night Reddington stares long and hard at Donald, who's a few drinks past tipsy, before asking, "Have you ever had sex with a man, Agent Ressler?" and Donald almost chokes on his scotch.</p><p>            "No," he splutters.</p><p>            "Would you like to try?"</p><p>            Donald laughs because he's not quite sure what else to do. He looks over at Reddington, who sips his own scotch with the same elegant poise he maintains regardless of whether he's charming some wealthy aristocrat over dinner or damning multiple people to death. Donald laughs again.</p><p>            "I'm being completely serious," Reddington insists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            He spends half a decade hunting the man. Half a decade tripping over false clues and stale breadcrumbs. He watches Reddington slip around corners and into sleek black getaway cars. He watches him eat fine foods, buy new hats, and bed beautiful women as he jet-sets around the world, pulling the strings behind some of the worst crimes in modern history. He watches him live a full life even while he knows the police are hot on his heels, which only asserts to Donald that in reality, he and the rest of the FBI probably aren't that hot on Reddington's heels after all.

            It makes him furious, this feeling of impotence. Things with Audrey go sour as well, and he starts to feel impotent in another department of his life, too. He works harder to catch Reddington so he can get his fucking life back, but it's all to no avail. Audrey leaves. Reddington steps his Italian leather-clad foot into another big black car. Donald flies back home in disgrace.

            Not long after, Reddington strolls into their headquarters all on his own and demands to speak with Elizabeth Keen, and everything goes to shit.

            When he ends up locked in the box with Reddington, his leg shot up to hamburger and the shock setting in, he thinks he's hit rock bottom. _This is my life, and this is how it ends. Stuck in a government box with the man who ruined everything._ When Reddington threatens to shoot him in the head to save Keen, Donald can't help but think, _Oh, just get it over with. I'm too tired for this shit._ But in the end, his will to live outranks his will to die, and he gives up the code.

            Laying in the hospital doesn't do much to raise his spirits, but when Audrey walks in and takes his hand, he thinks maybe things are starting to look up. He knows that on some level, he has Reddington to thank for this, but he shoves the thought away and endeavors to never think of it again. It mostly works. But when Audrey's dead and Tanida's head's delivered on a bed of straw in a beautiful box right to his doorstep courtesy of the master criminal, the thought creeps in once more.

            "Sometimes I think you destroyed my life," Donald tells Reddington shortly after his special delivery. They're sitting in Donald's apartment, drinking beer and not talking about their shared grief. "But then I think about the box and Garrick, and how it's because of that day that Audrey walked back into my life, even if it wasn't for very long, and I realize you didn't really destroy anything. Or at least, not anything you didn't somehow find a way to fix."

            Reddington only takes a drink.

            "She's gone now, again and for good, and I want to be mad at you. I spent so long being mad at you before when I lost her the first time. It feels natural to let all the rage come back now. But it...it doesn't stick. The image of Tanida's head sneaks in whenever I start to get mad at you, and the letter you wrote...." He can't think of what to say about the letter, so he says nothing. "I want to be mad at you, but I just can't be. Not about this anyway."

            Reddington puts his beer on the coffee table. "Dembe didn't think the head was a good idea," he says as he folds his hands in his lap.

            "It was perfect," admits Donald, his voice thick with grief and gratitude.

            "I knew it would be," Reddington replies. "I knew that thirst for blood within you would only be sated with his death, and I knew you couldn't be the one to deliver the final blow. So I did it for you; forgive me if I was out of line."

            "You weren't," says Donald, and he tries to keep his words even. "Thank you."

           

 

            From then on, Reddington somehow manages to get into his apartment when he's not paying attention, and the pair share a drink. They don't talk much--they're mostly memorializing their dead and gone--but it's soothing in its silence.

            One night Reddington stares long and hard at Donald, who's a few drinks past tipsy, before asking, "Have you ever had sex with a man, Agent Ressler?" and Donald almost chokes on his scotch.

            "No," he splutters.

            "Would you like to try?"

            Donald laughs because he's not quite sure what else to do. He looks over at Reddington, who sips his own scotch with the same elegant poise he maintains regardless of whether he's charming some wealthy aristocrat over dinner or damning multiple people to death. Donald laughs again.

            "I'm being completely serious," Reddington insists.

            Donald's laugh stops abruptly. Even drunk he can tell that Reddington is, indeed, being quite serious. He has no idea what to make of that, so he says the first thing that comes to mind. "Have _you_ ever had sex with a man?"

            "Many times," Reddington says matter of factly. "I find it rather pleasurable. I prefer women, of course, but there is certainly something to be said for the male form. And yours is rather nice."

            Donald blinks owlishly. "I'm not having sex with you," he says with a strangled voice.

            Reddington scoffs. "Well obviously not _now_. I require sobriety before intercourse. But when you dry up and've had a bit more time to consider my proposition, give me a ring."

            He's furiously trying to figure out how he got here in the conversation. He's not even sure when or how Reddington got into his apartment, let alone how on earth they've arrived at a point in the discussion where they're casually talking about fucking each other. Or at least Reddington is casually talking about fucking Donald. Donald isn't casually talking about anything so much as he's desperately trying not to vomit thanks to the sudden jolt in his stomach.

            When he looks back towards Reddington, still scrambling for a response, he finds Reddington has already left. But on the coffee table is a small slip of paper with a phone number written on it in a small neat script. He wonders briefly if this is the same number Keen has access to, but then he has to run to the bathroom and that train of thought stops just short of the station.

 

 

            When he sees Reddington again, it's at the Post Office. He has no idea how to react to the man, so he sticks to his guns and gives him all kinds of attitude. It's easy considering how on edge Reddington makes him. But the man doesn't seem to care about Donald's poor behavior.

            "Is this how you flirt?" he asks with a bemused smile. "It's quite ineffectual, but I appreciate the effort." Then Reddington strides away towards Cooper, leaving Donald to breathe heavily through his nose and clench his fists together while Liz stands off to the side and gapes like a fish.

            "What the hell are you looking at?" he snaps at her, and she puts her hands up in surrender and shakes her head.

            "Not a single thing," she replies, but she's snickering. Donald wants to punch something. Preferably Reddington.

            When he gets home that night, there's a package on his doorstep. It's a $75,000 bottle of Macallan. There's also a note: "Please, I beg of you, don't drink this all in one sitting like the last time."

            Donald's tempted to leave the bottle on the doorstep, or perhaps throw it out his kitchen window--he's certain Reddington's watching somehow--but he tamps down the urge and simply takes the bottle inside with him. He doesn't open it though.

 

 

            The next day at work Liz asks him to grab some lunch with her.     

            "I'd rather not, Keen." Donald says.

            "Mm, not going to take no for an answer," she says apologetically.

            Donald remembers vividly how Liz stabbed Reddington in the neck with a pen and decides not to challenge her.

            They head to a diner down the street. Liz orders a salad, Donald a BLT. He says nothing, simply waits for Liz to get her thoughts in order.

            "So, you and Red," she finally says.

            "There is no 'me and Red'," Donald counters quickly. Liz gives him a _look_. "Liz, c'mon, please," Donald tries again. "I'm pretty sure he's just found a new way to make me uncomfortable."

            "Seems like it's working pretty well."

            Donald puts down his sandwich. "What do you want me to say? I don't get approached for sex by criminal masterminds all that often."

            "Not by men much either?" Liz asks.

            Donald sighs. "And not by men much either," he agrees.

            "You thinking about saying yes?"

            "Jesus, Liz, does it really look like I want to talk about this? What about you? You ever fucked him? Let's talk about that."

            Liz's mouth tightens. "There's a really good chance he's my biological father, so no. I haven't had sex with him."

            Donald wants to disappear. "God, I'm sorry."

            She smiles. "It's fine. I guess I had it coming."

            "Anyway, no. I'm not thinking about saying yes."

            "Probably smart."

            Donald can sense a "but" coming.

            "But I have to say, I have always wondered. From a completely objective perspective obviously."

            Donald glares at Liz over the booth table. "Are you giving me permission to have sex with Reddington?" Liz doesn't say anything. "Okay, first off, I don't need your permission, Keen. Second, I'm not even remotely considering having sex with fucking Reddington."

            "That's a shame," comes a voice from somewhere behind him. Liz looks exasperated, but also somewhat amused, at the newcomer. Donald wants once again to disappear.

            "Go away, Reddington," he groans.  

            "Hi, Red," says Liz with a small wave.

            "Hello to my two favorite FBI agents," Reddington says with a smile. "If you'll let me join you I'll buy you both lunch."

            "Please, take a seat," Liz says at the same time that Donald says, "I'd rather you didn't."

            Reddington slides into the booth next to Donald and orders a burger. Donald pushes his plate away, appetite gone.

            "How have you enjoyed the scotch?" Reddington asks him. Liz's eyebrow shoots up.

            "It makes for real nice lighter fluid," Donald grits out.

            "You know, actually I think I'm going to head back to the office," Liz says as she slips out of the booth. Donald gives her a desperate look and tries to follow, but Reddington doesn't budge, so Donald can't get out of his seat.

            "It was lovely to see you, Lizzie, as always."

            "I'll never forgive you, Keen."

            Liz salutes and takes her leave.

            Reddington turns to look at Donald. "What are you doing Thursday night?"

            "I'm not sure, but I know something will come up."

            "Have dinner with me."

            "Absolutely not."

            "Am I really so terrible?"

            "Yes. Without a doubt."

            Reddington huffs. "I'm not sure what I've done to deserve this treatment--"

            "Besides threatening to kill me, murdering Liz's father, contributing to or outright committing the killing of thousands of people."

            "--but I really don't think this brusque attitude towards me is warranted."

            "Well, we both know I beg to differ."

            "Is it because I'm a man, or because I'm me? Or a bit of both?"

            Donald squirms. "I'm not talking about this."

            "A bit of both, then," Reddington concludes, but then his food appears. He asks the server to box the food up to go and then stands from the booth.

            "I'll go pay for this and let you escape. I'm sure I'll see you later."

            Donald books it out of the booth. "Unfortunately," he mutters. Then he walks quickly out of the diner.

 

 

            Reddington shows up at his apartment on Thursday night with mountains of Thai takeout and a six pack.

            "I thought it'd be easier to get you to have dinner with me if we didn't have to go out to get it. Also I wasn't sure what you liked, so I ordered a wide variety. This little Thai joint down the street from the house where I'm staying is really just heaven." Reddington pushes his way in past Donald, who is too surprised to do more than shut the door behind him.

            "I'm allergic to shellfish," he says flatly.

            "Oh, I knew that already," Reddington says as he arranges the various containers. "I'm not completely ignorant. Please, Donnie, take a seat."

            Donald frowns at the nickname but takes a seat on his couch. "Did you buy the entire restaurant?" he asks incredulously as Reddington continues to take out containers from plastic bags.

            "Just about. Except no seafood and no pad Thai, because I'm assuming your tastes are slightly less plebeian than that."

            Donald huffs. "I like pad Thai."

            "Then I despair," Reddington says sadly. "Here, try the taro-corn fritters."

            Donald ends up trying everything, much to Reddington's delight. They're so busy eating that they don't spend too much time talking, but the silence is oddly comfortable. Reddington is lounging in Donald's armchair, eating his glass noodle soup delicately with chopsticks, and Donald can't help but stare. This man is trying to seduce him. This king of crime wants to have sex with him. He can't quite fathom it.

            "You're wondering, 'Why me' aren't you, Donald?" Reddington says between bites.

            Donald doesn't deny it.

            "Well, to be honest you caught my eye back when you were bleeding out right in front of me. All that righteous anger about protecting me, and then it's all immediately undercut when your leg gets blown to bits. Suddenly _I_ was the one protecting _you_. Now who saw that one coming?" Reddington places his empty container on the coffee table and crosses his legs. One hand rests in his lap while the other arm bends at the elbow so his other hand can rest delicately against his temple.

            "You have my blood in you now. I'm part of you. And that intrigues me too. Then the nasty business with Tanida happened, and you were so hungry for your revenge. And I saw in you what I harbor in myself. And that starving beast lying in wait just beneath your skin howled, and my starving beast came forward and howled back. You and I are not the same in many ways, but in a few important areas, I think our true selves run parallel."

            Donald swallows. Licks his lips. Feels his jeans grow unexpectedly tight.

            "I can handle rejection, even with how few times I'm forced to face it. But I can't stand never knowing, and I refuse to keep from finding out. So here I am, FBI Agent Donald Ressler, in your living room, plying you with good food and good drink, hoping that by the end of the night you'll let me put my hands to the sides of your face and my lips flush along your own. I want to kiss you long and deep, likely how you've never been kissed before, though I do hate to brag, and I desperately want you to let me. But first, how do you feel about classical Hollywood cinema? I've brought a great Cary Grant film with me tonight." Reddington stares expectantly.

            Donald's mouth is completely dry, and he finds himself at a loss for words.

            "I'll take it you don't have much an opinion at all. That's fine; we can watch the film and then discuss." Then Reddington is out of the armchair and clearing away the empty Thai containers and setting up the DVD player. And then he's taking a seat very near to Donald on the couch and starting the movie.

            When it's over, Donald still has almost nothing to say. He hadn't been able to focus much on the movie, what with Reddington plastered up against his side so that Donald could feel intimately every laugh and sigh that Reddington expressed as the film played. But he hadn't been able to tear himself away either. Even now with the movie finished, Donald finds he's unable to move. The credits roll and Reddington turns to him, waiting for some kind of response, and all Donald can say is, "I have no idea what just fucking happened."

            Reddington laughs. Then he adjusts so that he's facing Donald on the couch. "I'm going to kiss you now, Donnie," he says, and Donald can only swallow. "I need you to nod if that's acceptable." Donald's head offers a minuscule jerk, but it seems to be enough for Reddington. He leans in, placing his hands, as promised, on either side of Donald's face, and then gently presses their mouths together.

            It is immediately too much for Donald, who abruptly stands from the couch and wipes at his lips. "Okay, I need you to leave now."

            Reddington looks disappointed, but he nods all the same and stands from the couch as well. "That's perfectly all right, Donald," he says. "Perhaps another time."

            _I don't think so_ , Donald says silently to himself, but he can't bring the words into audible being. Reddington says goodnight, but Donald says nothing in return, and when Reddington leaves, Donald doesn't bother cleaning anything up further. He just makes a beeline for the bathroom and brushes his teeth before crawling into bed where he is completely unable to fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

            When he sees Reddington at the Post Office a few days after, Donald ignores him completely. Reddington attempts to bate him into a reaction, but Donald is rock solid in his resolve to not give in. Liz watches with her brows furrowed.

            "Everything okay?" she asks later.

            "Fine," Donald insists.           

            "Because you and Reddington aren't--"

            "I'm _fine_ , Agent Keen. _We're_ fine."

            She gets the message and backs off. Reddington, however, does not.

            "I can understand if ignoring me makes you feel more powerful, but it's awfully childish. Lizzie tried it out once, and it didn't work out very well for her, as I suspect it won't work out very well for you."

            Donald takes deep breaths through his nose. "I'm not ignoring you," he says. "I'm just not responding to your efforts to get a rise out of me."

            "Well, listen. While I know the evening ended on a less than positive note, I still think the night was largely a success that merits repeating. What say you?"

            "Are you out of your fucking mind?" Donald all but shrieks. "No, I do not think the night 'merits repeating'! For fuck's sake."

            "I'm afraid I don't see why not," Reddington replies. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself up to the very end there."

            Donald goes beet red.

            "Look, just think about it." Reddington continues, "I'll be in touch soon."

 

 

            Getting in touch apparently means leaving a note on Donald's desk three days later that provides nothing more than a time, a place, and advice on what to wear ("What you'd wear to brunch," which is essentially meaningless). He debates with himself on wether to go or not all afternoon. Finally he succumbs, throws on a pair of grey slacks and a dark blue button down shirt, and calls himself a cab.

            About halfway through he almost tells the driver to turn back around, but he stops himself. He knows at his core that he's attracted on some inexplicable level to Raymond Reddington, and while he's not sure encouraging the man to continue seducing him is wise, he's as positive as he can be that _not_ seeing what happens would drive him even crazier.

            When he arrives at the correct address, he finds it's a small Italian restaurant that he'd always heard good things about but never had the chance to visit. Reddington's already there of course, sipping a glass of wine. Donald steels himself and heads for the table.

            "Donald!" Reddington says, delighted, "I'm so pleased you decided to join me."

            "I don't understand what's going on, but I'm man enough to try and figure it out," Donald replies, and Reddington laughs.

            "Your masculinity is so fragile. It'll be fun to see how it adapts, don't you think?"

            The jab makes Donald want to get up and go, but he knows he's being tested. "I can take a ribbing," he says.

            "Really? Because you look like you're trying very hard not to cause me bodily harm."

            "What do you get out of mocking me, Reddington? I thought you wanted me to like you." Well, Donald supposes wanting to have sex with someone and wanting that someone to like you are two different things, but he lets his comment stand.

            "You're right," Reddington says, almost solemnly. "I'm supposed to be wining and dining you, not insulting you. You look lovely, by the way. I mean that. The color of your shirt suits you perfectly."

            His instinct is to snipe something back, but Donald realizes he can't very well do to Reddington what he just critiqued Reddington for doing to him. "Thank you," he ends up saying, and tries to sound like he means it, which he in all honesty does. "You look as impeccable as ever."

            "My dear Donnie, that could almost be considered flirting by your standards! Why, thank you!"

            "Okay, Reddington, let's get the night over with."

            "Raymond, please. Or Red."

            "Okay, _Red_ , let's get the night over with."

            They work their way through a bottle of wine, appetizers, entrees, and desert. Donald had been surprised that Red had taken him to such a casual (for Red) place, but as he tastes all the food it becomes clear why the location has been chosen.

            The speak some about work. Then Donald admits that he watched the old movie again, and so they talk a little bit more about that. But the dinner, like the one before, ends up largely being spent in surprisingly companionable silence.

            When the meal is over and Reddington has footed the bill, he guides Donald by the small of his back out of the restaurant and towards his car where Dembe is waiting, finishing up a to-go container of tortellini that he had acquired at some point while Donald and Red were inside.

            "We can take you back home or to the hotel where I'm staying. It's your choice."

            Donald is comfortable with wine and food, so he looks at Red and says, "Fuck it. Take me to yours." Red smiles, all teeth.

            The hotel is gorgeous, the rooms spacious and modern. There's a sitting area and a dining area, and then a hallway that leads to the bedroom and bathroom. Dembe sits at the dining table, and Red leads Donald to the loveseat in front of the window. They have a full view of the city at night, and Donald is awed despite himself.

            "It's beautiful," he says quietly.

            "Yes, it is. And you look just as lovely."

            Donald blushes. He wonders what Dembe thinks of Red's game. He wonders how often the bodyguard has heard Red make similar flirtatious comments before he directed them to Donald.

            "I'm sorry, I've made you uncomfortable," Red says after Donald had failed to respond.

            "It's more that I don't believe you," Donald tells him honestly.

            "That's a pity. I have no reason to lie to you."

            Donald stands abruptly. "You got anything to drink here?"

            Red stays seated. "Of course. Dembe, could you bring us the decanter of whisky?"

            Dembe sets the decanter and a pair of glasses on the small end table next to Red's side of the loveseat. "Come on and sit back down, Donnie." When Donald sits he's rewarded with a glass of whisky.

            "To whatever this may be," Red toasts, and then he clinks their glasses together.

            They share many more glasses of the alcohol than Donald had anticipated, and after his third, he's feeling much more relaxed. He's allowed himself to be all but snuggled up against Red's form on the loveseat, and when he feels the urge to let his head rest on Red's shoulder, he doesn't have it in himself to stop. Red removes the empty glass from Donald's hand and sets it back on the end table along with his own, then he tilts Donald's face up to look at him.

            "Tell me when to stop," Red says softly, then his mouth is once more on Donald's.

            Donald doesn't run this time. He lets himself be kissed, long and deep as Red had promised before, and doesn't keep the small quiet moans from slipping out of his kiss-swollen lips.

            He's tipsy, but not enough to account for his allowing of Red to slide his tongue into his mouth or his hands beneath his untucked shirt. But when Red moves him into his lap, and their hardened cocks make contact through the fabric of their pants, Donald has to stop.

            "Okay, stop, stop," he says, then he crawls out of Red's lap.

            "Everything all right?" asks Red after he's wiped a bit of saliva from his lips.

            "Yeah, I just. I need to stop," Donald replies.

            "Okay, that's fine," Red says, and he stands from the loveseat. "Would you like your ride home now?"

            Donald stands as well. "Yeah, I think that'd be best."

            Dembe grabs the car keys and opens the door for Donald. Red grabs his face one last time and kisses gently. "We'll do this again." His tone sounds certain, but Donald understands it's still a question.

            "I think we will," he confirms, and then he lets Dembe take him home.

            When he’s back in his apartment, he makes his way over to the safe he has hidden away under the floorboards in his closet. He inputs the code, pushes aside his most recent tax documents, and pulls out the letter Red wrote him when he had Tanida’s head delivered. Donald reads back over the words for the millionth time and feels a warmth spread throughout him. Then he puts the letter back and hides the safe again.

 

 

            They go out half a dozen more times before Donald is comfortable enough to take his shirt off.

            It takes another half a month before he lets Red touch his cock, and two more weeks before he's able to touch Red's.

            And then it's another month after that before he and Red can tumble into bed together completely naked with their hips grinding together, one of Red's fingers up Donald's ass while his tongue explores the inside of his mouth. 

            Almost three months to the day after their first bizarre date, Donald takes a deep breath and whispers into Red's ear, "I want you to fuck me tonight." Red puts down his glass of Chardonnay and signals for the check. Out of respect for Dembe, Donald doesn't let Red jack him off in the backseat of his car, though it's oh so very tempting. Only once they're shut away in the bedroom of Red's most recent lodgings does he let Red touch his cock.

            He can't believe he's here. Letting Red slide his shirt over his head and unbutton his pants. Push his boxers down his legs. Donald feels completely useless and unsure of how to proceed with Red even though they've gone this far before. Somehow tonight he's almost afraid to muss up Red's nice clothes by tearing them off of him. He's anxious about seeing the scarred and perfect skin hidden underneath the layers of expensive fabric. Red seems to sense his nerves. He takes Donald's hands and places them at the buttons of his shirt. "Just here," he says softly, and Donald sets to work. It's difficult with Red kissing up his neck, drawing nearer to his lips.

            "I'm going to say this again: you must tell me if you start to feel uncomfortable or if we need to stop."

            Donald nods, then gently pulls the shirt back from Red's shoulders. "I'm good," he says, and his hardening penis seems to concur.

            When they’re both naked and lying on the bed, Red begins by sucking down Donald’s cock and stroking a finger along his perineum. Red pulls back long enough to say, “Donnie, you need to talk to me. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

            “Good,” Donald says. “You know you’re great at sucking cock, Red, so obviously I’m feeling pretty good. Still got a hard-on, don’t I?”

            Red smirks, but it’s clear to both parties, especially given the over-reaction, that Donald is wildly nervous. Red doesn’t go back to his cock, but instead moves up to lean over Donald.

            “You’re phenomenal,” he says, eyes impossibly fond. “And I’m stupidly sweet on you.”

            The comment makes Donald’s stomach flutter pleasantly.

            “I, I like you too,” Donald stutters out, and Red smiles.

            Red takes his time preparing Donald, and he uses more lube than is probably necessary. But Donald is so tense that they need all the help they can get.

            “You’re perfect,” Red murmurs into Donald’s skin while he works him open. “And you’re doing so damn well. Just take deep breaths, Donnie. In and out. That’s it; there you go.” Red’s constant stream of words is helping, but only so much. “Okay, I’m going to enter you now, Donnie, I need you to verbalize that it’s okay for me to do that.”

            “Yes, do it,” Donald says, and if his words are etched in anxiety, then there’s nothing he can do about it.

            “God, you’re amazing,” Red says as he pushes in. “You’re so good, darling, so good.” Out of anyone else’s mouth that particular term of endearment would feel false and strange, but somehow it sounds just right tumbling out of Red’s.

            "You're doing so well," Red continues to say as he begins to thrust.

            As far as first times go, Donald figures it could be worse. He enjoys the sensation of being so intimate with Red, likes kissing him and holding him and being held by him. But the feeling of Red's cock inside him isn't the most comfortable thing in the world. Red has a large girth, which wasn't surprising, and though he prepped Donald thoroughly, there's really nothing that can account for the feel and the size of the real thing. He runs his hands down Red’s back—usually a no-no given the state of his burned skin, but Red seems to be able to tell that Donald needs the tactile distraction, and he doesn’t push his hands away immediately.

            "You're perfect like this," Red tells him as he leans back. He puts one hand on the inside of one of Donald's thighs and wraps the other around his semi-softened penis.

            Donald wants to tell him that he's not. That he can't even get fully hard for Red. But he can't bring himself to say the words; he can only turn his head away, take deep breaths, and focus on the sound of Red's voice in his ear.

            Red stills. "Donnie, you have to tell me if we need to stop."

            Donald opens his eyes and looks at Red. Then, in a small voice, he says, "I just wish I could make this better for you." And it's true. Something about Red like this, careful and calm and encouraging, makes Donald want to do nothing but please him.

            Red smiles, open and affectionate. "My dear, you are far more generous than anyone gives you credit for."

            Donald slides a shaky hand up Red's stomach and chest. When he reaches the back of his neck, he guides Red back down to his mouth. "Keep going. It _does_ feel good when you angle just right." So Red keeps going, and soon enough he's hitting Donald's prostate with every tilt of his hips.

            After he comes and ties off the condom, he gives Donald a blowjob so good he finds himself desperate for more. And when Donald comes down his throat, Red swallows it all and licks his lips.

            They don't cuddle afterwards; of course they don't. But they don't lie on opposite ends of the bed either. In the glaze of the afterglow, Donald turns his head to kiss Red's shoulder, and while he'll regret the action later, in the moment it feels right. Red takes one of Donald's hands and kisses the palm, then he turns over to the shut off the light on the nightstand. Donald is almost fully asleep, but he still hears in the darkness Red’s low voice.

            “You deserve happiness, Donald.”

 

 

            The next morning they share breakfast. Though it's awkward with Dembe sitting at the island not two yards away, Donald has to ask.

            "Was it worth it? Fucking me, I mean." He's blushing red as a tomato. "Surely if you wanted sex with a guy you could have found a dozen men better suited instead of spending the last three months trying to get in bed with me."

            Red puts down his fork. "I didn't want a dozen men. I wanted you."

            Donald swallows. "So you've had me. What now?"

            The other man sighs. "Now we eat breakfast. Then I see you at work later. And if you can swing it, I take you on a long weekend trip to Trinidad where we eat sumptuous meals, take naps on the beach, and continue to have sex until we get perfectly right for both of us. Then I bring you back here, you go back to work, and if I'm lucky, we continue to see one another outside of the office. How does that sound?"

            Donald's throat goes dry. "It sounds good."

            Red smiles and returns to his eggs. “I meant what I said last night,” he says as he butters his toast. “You deserve happiness, and I’d like to be one of the people that helps you get it.”


	3. Chapter 3

            "So how does it feel to have a sugar daddy?" Liz asks a few weeks later.

            Donald looks up from his paperwork warily. He sees Liz standing in front of his desk, sipping her coffee nonchalantly.

            "I wouldn't know," he says stiffly.

            Her eyes dart from his tie--a gift from Red--to the pen in his hand--another gift from Red--to the travel mug filled with gourmet coffee that Donald certainly didn't get from the company kitchen--technically not a gift from Red, as Donald had pilfered the beans while Red had taken a call from one of his many unsavory contacts--and finally land back on him.

            "If you're seriously trying to suggest that the only reason I'm sleeping with Red," and this part was murmured in a furious whisper, "is so that he'll buy me nice things, then you don't know me at all."   

            "So you do admit to sleeping with him?"

            "Oh, obviously I'm sleeping with him!" Liz looks pleasantly surprised at the admission. Donald rolls his eyes. "Your job is to read people, and you're irritatingly good at it, so I see no point in trying to hide the fact that we're having sex from you. But he's not my 'sugar daddy' okay?"

            "Look, I'm not judging," Liz says with a grin. Donald wants to pull his hair out.

 

 

            He gets her back a couple of weeks later, though, when he's riding Red like a fucking bronco, and Liz is suddenly in the bedroom with them.

            "Oh, Jesus Christ!" Red says at the same time that Liz shrieks. Donald has the misfortune of being in the process of coming when Liz storms in, so he shrieks as well, but for completely different reasons.

            "Liz, what the fuck!" he shouts after he's tumbled off of Red and hiked the sheet up over himself.

            She says nothing, choosing instead to turn tail and run back into the living room. Dembe takes her places and shrugs. "I tried to warn her, Red. But she was determined. And quick."

            Red's frowning. He gets out of bed and angrily takes off his condom. "I'll be right back," he says as he shrugs on his bathrobe. Donald nods and covers his face in his hands.

            He can hear Liz's frantic apologies from just beyond the door, and then, much lower, Red's soothing voice. Donald can't tell what he's saying, but he assumes it's something reassuring. He decides he wants to be a part of the conversation outside and puts on his underwear and one of Red's undershirts.

            "I'm butting in," he says as he closes the bedroom door behind him.

            "Please, do," Red insists. He extends an arm to Donald, but Donald shakes his head and leans back against the wall instead. He knows it'll irritate Red, but he's not ready to snuggle up next to him while Liz sits directly across from them. Red's brow furrows. When he turns to Liz his voice is unusually short.

            "What's going on, Lizzie?"

            It turns out to be something to do with a case at work that Donald's not helping on, so he tunes out the discussion and focuses instead on Red. He's elegant, even in his bathrobe. He lounges on the couch as if it were a throne, and Donald finds himself frustratingly endeared with the display of casual possession. _What don't you own?_ he asks himself. He suspects the answer to his question is _nothing_.

            Dembe is at his side with a cup of tea. He takes it with silent thanks. He's not overly fond of the stuff, but Red's been on a mission to find a flavor he likes, so Donald's trying his best to like it.

            He stick s to his corner throughout the conversation, occasionally offering his opinion but mostly keeping quiet in the background. When Liz finally leaves a little over an hour later, Red sighs heavily and Donald finally joins him on the couch.

            "So now you sit with me," Red says testily.

            "I'm sorry," he replies. "I don't feel comfortable being affectionate in front of Liz."

            Red runs a hand through his short hair. "Mm, I know." He sighs again. "What a waste of a perfectly good fuck." 

            "There's still the whole rest of the night," Donald says, trailing a hand of Red's thigh.

            "You're cum's dried on my stomach," Red whispers, and Donald finds himself shivering.

            "Let's go back to bed," Donald says as he stands, taking one of Red's hands and pulling him with him. "Let me at least suck you off."

 

 

            If things aren’t easy between the two of them, they certainly aren’t terribly difficult, either. At work their behavior is largely the same as it was before, except now Red’s willing to talk to Donald _if_ Liz isn’t available. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s more than a little insulted that Red hasn’t put him on the same level as Liz when it comes to who he’s willing to talk to on the task force. They’re spending more nights together than apart at this point, yet Liz still remains the man’s priority.

            Donald likes Liz, and he’s ashamed of the jealousy he feels towards her, but at the same time he can’t fully shake it. It’s made more difficult by the fact that Liz is constantly trying to get him to have a drink with her so she can dish with him about Red. While Donald certainly understands the urge to speak with someone who’ll understand what it’s like spending so much time with the Concierge of Crime, his envy over Liz’s spot in Red’s life bars him from getting any friendlier with her than he already has. The worst part is that she can tell he’s distancing himself, and she’s can’t understand why.

            “Hey, is everything okay between us? I’m sorry if I’ve been pushing you too much to talk about Reddington lately. I didn’t mean any harm by it,” she says nervously one day.

            Donald puts on the best smile he can muster and hopes she buys it. “Of course we’re good,” he lies. “I just…I’m really not sure there’s much I feel comfortable saying about me and him. It’s still so new and strange to me.” It’s a suitable half-truth, and if Liz doesn’t entirely believe him, she lets him get away with the mistruth.

            “I understand,” she tells him, placing a hand on his arm in support. “He’s…something else.”

            “That he is,” Donald agrees, and then he heads home from work.

            When he meets up with Red later for drinks, attitude improved after a shower and a change of clothes, he feels his good mood falter when he see Liz is there as well.

            “Ah, Donnie, darling, you’re just in time,” Red says, then he pulls Donald in for a quick kiss. “Liz found something interesting about Berlin, so I told her she may as well join us.”

            Donald tries not to let his face fall. He’s not sure what upsets him more, the fact that Liz is here or the fact that he’s feeling possessive over _Red_. Donald once again wonders how the fuck he got to this point in his life. She’s here to help Red, and he just wants to toss her out on her ass.

            He sits at the bar and watches Red watch Liz as she talks about bank records and ship logs that somehow link back to Berlin, his eyes glowing with affection. He praises her for making connections and taking the initiative. He barely spares a glance towards Donald, who drinks beer he’s paying for on his own tab and tries not to look so sullen. He thinks it’s because Red has a particular way of making you feel special. He tells you how wonderful you are, showers you with gifts and physical affection, and uses his not inconsiderable means to make sure you’re happy. When all that power and charisma is focused solely on you…it can be difficult to be reminded that you’re not the only one he thinks is special, and what Donald’s being reminded of now is that Liz is far more special than he is.

            But Donald’s a grown man, and he never thought this would be anything long term, so he finishes his third beer, closes out his tab, and waits for Liz and Red to finish up their crime talk. He knows he should be offering up opinions of his own, but no one seems too interested in hearing any, and he doesn’t have any to start with, so he lets his mind wander until there’s a natural lull in the conversation.

            But apparently he lets his mind wander too far, because before he knows what’s happening, Red is looking at him strangely and Liz is no longer there. “Where’d Liz go?” he asks.

            “He speaks!” Red says. “Lizzie needed to use the facilities. And what about you? Where did you go just now?” 

            _I was thinking about the fact that I’m in love with you, but that I can’t compete with your shining pseudo daughter_. “I’m not feeling great. Think I might just head back home.”

            Red narrows his eyes. “I think it’s better if you come back with me. I can keep an eye on you that way.”

            “I’m not going to be up for anything,” Donald says, and he keeps his eyes open for Liz’s return.

            “That’s fine. We don’t have some rule that says we have to have sex every night we’re together.”

            “I…” _know a lost cause when I see one._ “Fine. I’ll head back with you.” When Liz returns from the bathroom they all make their goodbyes. Red walks Liz to her car and then heads back to his own where Donald is already waiting inside. He falls back against the seat with a sigh and then slumps down until his head is resting on Donald’s shoulder.

            “You’re upset with Liz and me.”

            Donald is tired and not in the mood for games, so he just says, “I’m upset with myself.”

            Red looks up at him. “What does that mean?”

            But Donald shakes his head and keeps silent, and Red doesn’t ask him any more questions.

 

 

            When he see Red later in the week for lunch things are still tense. Donald has spent the last few days examining his relationship with Red, asking himself what he wants out of it, and trying to guess what it is that keeps Red interested. He’s distant at lunch, barely touching his food and hardly paying attention to a word that leaves Red’s mouth.

            “You’re not hearing a thing I’m saying, are you?” Red asks, irritated.

            Donald looks at his watch and jumps. “I’m sorry, Red, I’ve got to get back.” Then he’s out of his seat and out the door without even a peck goodbye for Red.

            He wonders when Red will tire of him. When he'll dump him like yesterday's trash. When the gifts will cease arriving, when the little notes with the night's address will stop landing on his desk at work. He finds himself shamefully terrified of the day when Red decides he isn't worth the trouble anymore. Donald's lost a lot, and he doesn't have much going for him outside of work. He's used to life on his own. But Red's reminded him what it's like to have a partner, to be supported, and he no longer wants to go back to the life of loneliness he had before. Being forced back into it both times after Audrey was enough for his lifetime.

            "What are you thinking about?" Red asks, and Donald realizes he's been staring mindlessly at the same spot on the menu for the last few minutes. It’s Saturday night, and for reasons Donald can't understand Red has decided he still wants to be around Donald despite his piss-poor social skills lately. But he remembers that he has no idea what the fuck to order. The bolt of terror that he will never be good enough for anyone, let alone Raymond fucking Reddington, strikes him again.

            "Nothing," he says, and he doesn't bother with hiding the lie.

            Red sips his water, his eyes sharp. "Do you know what you want to eat?"

            Donald shrugs. "I'll let you choose," he says.

            Red picks something delicious, of course, but Donald's unable to enjoy it.

           

 

            That night they go to Donald's.

            "Why are we here?" he asks, confused. "You never sleep over here."

            "The place where I'm staying now is so impersonal. I thought we could do with a little comfort."

            Donald finds himself even more uncertain, but he lets Red and himself in without any more questions. His place is a little messy--though Donald prefers "lived in"--and compared to the immaculate hotels Red's been in recently, Donald thinks his place feels sloppy and pedestrian. Red doesn't seem to mind, though. Once the door is shut behind them, he makes his way to Donald's kitchen and pours the both of them a drink.

            "You've been off all week. Why?" Red asks.

            Donald doesn't want to sound pathetic, but he also doesn't have the energy to lie. "I'm feeling unanchored," he says quietly.

            Red hands him his drink. "Explain."

            Donald desperately does not want to. He wants to throw back his scotch, take a shower, and crawl into bed. He wants a warm body to cozy up to. Wants to cozy up to Red. Wants to pretend Red never existed. Wants to go out on a sailboat and leave his sham of a satisfied life behind. He takes a breath and does the first thing on his list of wants, swallowing the contents of the glass Red had handed to him and then placing the empty glass on the coffee table.

            "I don't know what we're doing," Donald finally says, and it's like a dam breaks. "I don't understand it. I'm not trying to be a stereotypical guy having some identity crisis about his sexuality and his masculinity, but...you're the first man I've ever done this with. The first man I've ever felt this way about. And I don't even know how I'm feeling. We have such a fucking complicated history, and you're such a fucking complicated person. But it's so easy to forget about all of that when you're pounding me into the mattress." He rubs at his eyes, feeling so incredibly worn out.

            "Except, obviously, when it's not so easy to forget," he continues. "And this week it hasn't been easy. I don't know what you want with me, or for how long you're going to want it. And I'm scared that someday soon, before I even have the chance to figure this all out, you'll be gone. Back to talking only to Keen. Back to acting like the rest of the team doesn't exist. And I'll have been nothing but a notch on your belt. Which, in any other circumstance with any other person, I'd be fine with. I'm not so hung up about relationships anymore. But you? You're different. And I'm different with you. And I don't fucking know what any of it means. And I'm so tired of trying to figure it out."

            He looks to Red and tries to gauge the other man's reaction, but Red is as calm as ever, and he offers no answers, only a return question. "Would you like me to go?"

            "No," Donald says. Then, "I don't know? Maybe?"

            "I just want to do what you think would be most helpful."

            "I don't know what would help. Stop being so smart and charming and sophisticated, maybe," he says with a small laugh, and then Donald thinks he understands why Red took them to his apartment instead of the five star hotel.

            Red snorts. "I'm afraid I can't do that. I can take you to bed, though."

            Donald scoffs. "One track mind, I see."

            "Don't misunderstand me, Donald," Red says, voice low.

            "No," Donald agrees. "I don't. Look, I just want to shower and brush my teeth. I'd like for you to stay, but I get if you'd rather leave."

            Red stands, and Donald thinks he's going to leave after all. But he only walks to the bathroom and begins to brush his own teeth. Donald follows, stripping his clothes off in the bedroom and then joining Red in the bathroom. He presses his naked body flush against Red's clothed one, and whispers, "I'm sorry," into Red's neck.

            Red spits, rinses, and turns around. "Don't ever apologize for being honest with me." Then he kisses Donald's forehead and heads for the bedroom.

            When Donald gets out of the shower, Red is naked in his bed, reading the novel that Donald had set on the nightstand. "This book is terrible," Red tells him as he flips another page.

            "Then don't read it," Donald says with another small smile. 

            "Will you distract me with something better?" Red asks, but his voice is soft and careful.

            Donald lets his towel fall and slips into bed. "I want you inside me."          

            Red obliges.

 

 

            It's a little different that night; a little more tender, though not any less rough. Red, who is normally careful to position himself in a way that makes it difficult for Donald to reach his back, allows the younger man to run his hands up and down the tough flesh while Red slams his hips into Donald's over and over again. He doesn't wear a condom, either, which is new.

            Donald drags his hands once more up Red's back, the sensation foreign and exciting, and then lets his arms curl around Red's neck and settle. "I love the way you feel," he says, voice stuttering with Red's thrusts.

            "Tell me how much," Red says, breathless.

            "More than any other feeling."

            "More than any other pussy?"

            "Yes," Donald drags out. "Love your fucking cock more than anything."

            Donald's not one for dirty talk, or at least not with Red, and this is fairly mild. But still, it's enough to set Red off.

            "Keep going," he orders, and Donald tries to comply.

            "I think about your cock all the time, fucking inside me, deep. So deep I can feel it when I sit at my desk at work. I see Keen, and I think, 'Do you know how hard he rode my ass last night?'" Something about mentioning Liz seems to flip a switch in Red. His thrusts get erratic, and groans that Donald's never heard before start trailing from Red's lips. "I liked it when she walked in on us that night. Liked the fact that she saw what we were doing. I know she got a good look at your cock filling me up, hot, tight, wet. God, I get so wet for you. And now she knows. That I'm special to you, too. that I'm yours. That she has to _share_ with _me_. Oh Jesus Christ, Raymond, fuck me just like that." And Red does until his hips cant one final time and his cock spills cum, hot and thick, inside. He grabs Donald's cock as he comes, and the sudden squeeze is enough to send Donald spiraling into orgasm, too.

            Red takes a moment to collapse onto Donald, head resting on his chest, before he slips out of him and gets off the bed. He returns a minute later with a damp towel. Once they're clean, he settles himself back under the covers.

            "That was..." Red begins.

            Donald buries his face in his pillow, exhausted and embarrassed. "We really don't have to talk about it."

            "Well, I think I'd quite like to, but we don't have to talk about it tonight."

            "Do you bring out that level of intensity with everyone you have sex with?" Donald asks, breathing heavily, even though he's uncovered his face.

            "I think it's more that I have sex with very intense people."

            "But we've never fucked quite like that before!" Donald insists.

            "Donnie, I hope you're not complaining," Red says, voice irritated.

            "I wasn't." Then Donald falls silent.

            "Pray tell-- _again_ \--what you're thinking about."

            "I just want to be close to you," Donald whispers, sleep drunk enough to be blatantly honest. "I want to trust you, and for you to trust me. I want to feel every inch of my skin pressed up next to yours. And the worst part is that I don't really want to feel any of this at all."

            Red releases a breath and turns on his side. He maneuvers Donald until their legs are twined, their hips slotted together, one of Donald's legs tossed over Red's thigh, and his head tucked under Red's chin. He feels like a child.

            "Go to sleep, my love," Red whispers, and Donald does.

 

 

            He goes to talk to Liz the next day. They meet at a coffee shop, both in comfortable clothes, and Donald pulls her chair out for her.

            “Oh-kay,” Liz says, confused.

            “I’m grossly jealous of you,” Donald says right off the bat.

            “What! Why?”

            “Because Red loves you better.”

            Liz opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Donald knows she’s trying to deny it, but can’t.    

            “Look, it’s okay. Really. I’m an adult, and I’m going to get past this, but it’s just been very difficult lately to accept what I mean to him, because it also meant that I had to accept that he means something to me, which I never fucking wanted.”

            Liz looks at Donald like she might look at a kicked puppy. “He has a way about him, doesn’t he?”

            Donald thinks back to their talks about Audrey. About loneliness. About happiness. “Yeah, he does.”

            “Are we going to be okay though?” she asks.

            Donald traces the rim of his coffee cup. “Yeah. I think I’m just going to need some time to work out what I’m feeling. I spent a long time after Audrey trying not to feel anything at all, and the past half a year has been…more than I bargained for.”

            Liz nods. She knows just what he means.

 

 

            That night, when Red has broken in to his apartment, his hands laden once more with far too much Thai food for two people and a six pack of beer, Donald tells him about his coffee date with Liz. Red listens and is silent.

            “So you’re not going to deny that she means more to you than I do?” Donald asks as he picks at the corn kernels at the bottom of the taro fritter container, because he’s a glutton for punishment.

            “Donald, she’s…she’s--”

            Donald can’t bear the conflicted look on Red’s face. “Red, it’s okay. I know. Forget I even asked.”

            Red puts down his plate of pad ginger. “But I need you to hear this: Lizzie might be, well, _Lizzie_ , but you must understand that I am inordinately fond of you as well, Donald.”        

            It’s not quite as romantic as a declaration of undying love would have been, but it makes Donald smile all the same. “I’m getting there, Raymond,” Donald says hoping to assure Red. “And you know I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know if I really ship this. But I wrote ten thousand words anyway as I tried to figure it out.
> 
> Spoiler alert: I didn't. Figure it out, I mean.
> 
> This is probs super ooc??? Also I marathoned The Blacklist in roughly two days, so there might be some canon issues if I missed or misremembered something.
> 
> Also published late at night with no beta, so I AM SO SORRY ABOUT ANY TYPOS.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr! http://slashmyheartandhopetoporn.tumblr.com/


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